


double dog dare ya

by eleadore



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fingerfucking, M/M, Non AU, Romance, Schmoop, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:25:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleadore/pseuds/eleadore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where the boys play some truth or dare and Harry has a one track mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	double dog dare ya

**Author's Note:**

> i greatly dislike this trope, maybe bc no game of truth or dare i've played has ever ended in kisses. just tears :(

Everything slows down when Harry’s buzzed just right, turns patient and syrupy like he has all the time in the world to do nothing but breathe. People say he goes awfully quiet, and they look at him like they’re worried he’s reliving some kind of trauma or composing country songs in his head, when really all that’s keeping him occupied is the spit-shine of Louis’ mouth and the way his body moves when he knows Harry’s watching. 

Like right now. 

It’s the middle of the night and they’re all sprawled poolside, taking advantage of the rare hotel arrangement that grants them this much privacy. Harry’s melting into the lounge chair and Louis is sat on the floor with his legs spread wide open, all invitation, but he’s not near enough to reach and enough of a bloody tease that Harry refuses to call him over on principle. He wants to, though. The air turned chilly hours ago but Louis looks flushed and warm and Harry wants to drag him onto his lap and slide his hands under his hoodie and over his spine, leech some of that heat for himself. But everything’s gone slow and heavy and it’d take far too much effort to move, so he settles for just—watching, because that’s easy. 

Louis makes it easy, popping crisps into his mouth and licking the salt off his fingers, tucking himself into Zayn’s side and laughing at—Harry doesn’t even know. He’s reached that plateau where everything but Louis goes fuzzy and indistinct, and it’s a fine place to be, usually, but there’s this edge to it tonight, this itch under his skin. He’s half hard and his trunks are still uncomfortably wet from the pool and the lads wouldn’t mind if he had a wank, probably wouldn’t even notice, but. Harry doesn’t want to take care of himself; he wants to be taken care _of._

He wants it badly enough to pout, and he’s so busy being sullen that he misses the boys transition from debating the merits of Garfield versus McGuire to playing truth or dare, of all things. 

“And nothing to do with the pool,” Liam’s saying, by the time Harry’s shaken off his sulk and started paying attention, “and nothing permanent—“ 

“You’ve killed it, Liam,” Louis interrupts, this mean little curl to his mouth that Harry wants to lick. “Haven’t even started yet and you’ve gone and buried any fun we might’ve had.“ 

“Well, sorry if I’m not too keen on facing Lou in the morning after you’ve shaved your eyebrows off again!”

“How permanent is that, though,” Niall says, thoughtful when he’s drunk. “Like, they did grow back.”

“Yes, thank you,” Louis says, and cuts his eyes to Harry’s for a split second before beginning to bicker in earnest, rising up on his knees and throwing his arms out, the sort of animated he only gets when it’s a performance. Harry wishes he could stop falling so easily into the role of captivated audience, but you know what they say about wishes and—horses. Beggars. Fuck, it’s bad when Harry stops making sense even in his head, but Louis has been playing this game all night, and it’s been a long night, and Harry’s no longer in the mood to be teased.

Louis doesn’t particularly care, if the way he launches himself at Liam is any indication. His hoodie rides up in the middle of the ensuing scuffle and Liam’s hands find bare skin when they grab for his waist. Louis shrieks at the tickling but doesn’t give in, even when he ends up with Liam crouched over him, pinning him down. He looks small, struggling under Liam’s bulk, and if Harry were closer he’d be separating them with a well-placed kick, but he’s not, so instead he bites the inside of his mouth and tries not to touch himself.

Liam’s got one arm across Louis’ chest and they’re both still shouting, Louis flushed and laughing and trying to poke him in the eye with his free hand. They’re close enough that it wouldn’t take much to bring their mouths together, to kiss, maybe, accidentally on purpose, and the thought agitates him so keenly Harry has to look away. 

Staring at the water just makes his head swim. He feels achy, like the heart of a bruise, and more than a little desperate. It’s as if even the most indolent parts of him are straining for Louis, and it’s bloody exhausting, and if Liam doesn’t stop touching him Harry’s going to do something drastic, like whine about it. _Out loud._

“Okay, fine, I give,” Louis gasps, and Harry turns just in time to catch his eye, slippery quick before he’s back to grinning at Liam, rolling his hips up and raising his eyebrows. “Truth or dare.”

“Ugh,” Liam says, looking pained, “dare,” and Louis pats his cheek and says, “there’s a good lad,” before scrambling to his feet. His hair’s all mussed up and probably still smells too strongly of chlorine; Harry wants so badly to bury his nose in it that his skin prickles. He rides the shiver and watches Louis curl his toes against the tile, the way he bounces a little when he says, “now sit tight while I get the props.”

Liam groans, and Niall and Zayn are laughing so hard they’ve upended the bowl of crisps. It’s possible Harry has missed the dare entirely, but Louis is walking toward him with the intention of walking past him, and everything else is just background noise.

Harry doesn’t mean to catch his wrist and tug him close, but Louis looks like he was waiting for it, ducking down to put his mouth at Harry’s ear.

“You’re staring,” he says, and the tip of his nose is cold against Harry’s cheek.

“You’re pretty,” Harry whispers, because, well. He is. 

Louis’ lip curls up over his teeth. “Gonna tell me something I don’t know?”

“I want to kiss you,” Harry says, and Louis laughs a little, teases, “something I _don’t_ know,” but when Harry tilts his head back and lets his mouth go soft and wanting, Louis just hums and looks at him, eyes bright.

“Can I,” Harry mumbles, because sometimes Louis is waiting to give permission, and tonight Harry’s feeling boneless, too lethargic to take control. Louis licks his lips, a quick swipe of tongue that has Harry’s stomach clenching, and says, voice low, “have you still got that tube of Bengay in your bag?” 

“Mmhm,” Harry says, “front pocket,” before the part of his brain not preoccupied with Louis’ mouth comes back online. “Lou. Seriously?”

“What?” Louis is laughing now, puffs of breath warming the line of Harry’s jaw. He twists his wrist in an attempt to get free, but not very hard. “I can’t back out now. Nialler’s counting on me to make Liam cry.”

Harry doesn’t say, “you’re going to make _me_ cry,” but Louis’ eyes crinkle up like he heard him anyway. He gasps when Harry squeezes his wrist, winces a little, but his face is still lit up with amusement, and he doesn’t even bat an eye when Harry cups himself with his free hand and threatens, “I’ll just start without you, then.”

“No, you won’t,” Louis says, and no, he won’t, because Louis is radiating heat and smells sweet and the last thing Harry wants is to get himself off while Louis ignores him in favor of rubbing Bengay on Liam’s balls, or whatever it is he’s got planned. He tightens his grip around Louis’ wrist before he lets him go, just enough to make him flush, to form bruises he can kiss in the morning, and takes some solace in the way Louis’ throat bobs when he swallows.

If Harry weren’t just the right amount of buzzed, he’d do something about the way Louis mouths _be good_ before pulling free. If he weren’t loose limbed and languid, he’d grab Louis around the waist and dig his fingers in too hard to tickle, haul him over his lap and hold him in place. If he weren’t—but he is, so instead he lets his head fall back and feels his entire body go tight with longing, from his throat to his nipples to the arches of his feet. 

He wasn’t too far off about the dare, as it turns out; Louis just refrains from getting his hands dirty. Harry’s still on the bad side of frustrated and headed for miserable, but Liam’s trepid “well, it’s not—it just um, tingles, a bit—” followed by, “oh, oh fuck, you sadistic _cunt,_ ” makes him bark out a helpless laugh. He’s got it under control by the time Louis looks at him, but then Liam goes, “Zayn, would you fucking get up and help me,” and Zayn says, “you’re going to have to dare me to wash your balls, mate,” and Harry’s not sure Niall’s even breathing anymore. 

It always feels strange to laugh this hard when you’ve got a stiffy, and Louis looks nothing short of triumphant, red-faced and grinning hard. Harry rides it out and then flips him off, breathless and so horny he’s going a little mad with it. He stretches out to lose the burn in his abs and thighs and watches Louis track the movement, wonders how much longer he’ll have to wait.

It ends up being longer than he could have predicted. He sits through two rounds of sending racy texts to immediate family members and a humiliating conversation with Perrie, the old toothpaste and orange juice, and Liam snorting Doritos cheese-dust. By the time Louis dares Niall to clip his toenails with his teeth—“at least you don’t have to get near Lou's feet,” is Zayn’s attempt at comfort—Harry’s palming himself through his shorts and hoarse from laughing. Getting a hand on his cock feels good, so good that he starts drifting, head back and eyes slitted, and startles when he hears his name.

“Truth or dare, Haz,” Niall says, between spitting out bits of toe gunk, and Harry had thought it was obvious he wasn’t playing, but—well. Maybe Niall’s got the right idea.

“Truth,” he says, and shrugs when everyone protests, because fuck the unspoken rule; he’s not getting up for anything.

Niall looks baffled. “Well, I. I haven’t really got anything I wanna ask you, mate. Um. D’you… want a drink?” 

“No, thank you,” Harry says politely, and watches Louis duck his head to hide a smile. Harry’s tingling all over, anticipation and arousal sparking some crazy pins and needles mix, and he has to take a slow breath before he can say, “Louis. Truth or dare?”

Louis doesn’t look up, but Harry can see the pleased curve of his cheek. “Dare.”

“Come kiss me,” Harry says, and ignores the loud groans, Zayn’s, “well, that’s game over,” because Louis is scrubbing his hand across his mouth and still smiling and when he gets up Harry’s stomach swoops the way it did the first time Louis looked at him with intent, years ago. By the time Louis is close enough to touch Harry’s heart is beating like crazy and he’s wondering if he’ll ever get over this, how much growing up he has to do before Louis stops having this kind of effect on him.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” 

“Been waiting,” Harry protests, and holds his breath as Louis swings a leg over his lap, waits for the first solid press of him, the weight. Louis’ thighs tense under Harry’s palms as he settles and lifts himself up again, and Harry can’t help but buck up a little, chasing the friction. When Louis leans in, it’s to tease, these barely there brushes of his mouth, all dry and sweet. “Lou. Do it like—properly.” 

“Ohh, _properly_ ,” Louis mocks, but he’s kissing him too, fitting their mouths together hard. “Didn’t realize I’d been doing such a poor job.” 

“Well I have standards now,” Harry says, “so.”

“Is that right,” Louis murmurs, and Harry shuts up because Louis won’t, and he doesn’t want to talk anymore. They’re alone now, the lads having staggered back inside sometime between one kiss and the next, and Louis is heavy and warm and tastes bitter and still a bit like orange juice. He hasn’t shaved all day, and the stubble is roughing up Harry’s mouth, the sensitive skin of his upper lip burning from the friction. It’ll start to hurt if they keep it up, and he’ll look a mess in the morning, but it feels so good to lie back and go slack and let himself be kissed that he can’t protest, not until his jaw begins to ache and his mouth starts to throb, and—not even then.

Louis is the one who pulls back, jolting when Harry slides his hands down the back of his shorts. “Cold!”

“Sorry,” Harry says, but he’s not really, because he’s got two handfuls of Louis’ arse and, well. He squeezes and Louis moves with him, hooking both arms over the back of the lounge chair, rising onto his knees. The pool lights throw strange shadows over his face, and Harry looks at him, unblinking, until his vision goes blurry. 

It stings when he licks his lips. He wants Louis’ mouth again. 

“Truth or dare,” Louis says, and he sounds composed but Harry can feel the restless shift of his body, the pulse pounding at the base of his throat. 

“Dare.”

“Get your fingers wet and fuck me,” Louis says, and his voice hitches for the first time, breaks a little when Harry’s grip on him tightens. “Until I come. Okay?”

“Okay,” Harry says, or thinks he says; he isn’t really aware of anything beyond how Louis feels under his hands, his spit-slick mouth, the look in his eyes. Everything’s gone slow and viscous again, like walking underwater, those pool lights awful bright. He’s so hard the weight of Louis’ body has gone from being welcome to uncomfortable, but Harry doesn’t even want to come anymore, not really. Louis kisses him while he sucks on his fingers, and it’s messy, the heat of his mouth making Harry’s skin break out in goosebumps.

He’s even hotter inside, when Harry finally fucks his fingers in—two, quick and hard, because when Louis wants it this badly he likes it to hurt a little. His shorts get drawn down around his thighs and he gets a hand on his cock as soon as its free, mouth open, panting against Harry’s jaw. Harry wants to ask if he can touch himself, if he can rub their cocks together and pull them both off, but he knows what the answer will be, so he screws his eyes shut instead and seeks out Louis’ mouth and fingers him until Louis is biting at him, rocking back onto his hand. 

He’ll be sore, after. Harry’s wrist is aching with how hard he’s pumping his fingers in, and spit doesn’t do much to ease the way, but right now he’s kneading at Harry’s shoulders and gasping, “more, more, more,” until Harry can’t help it, has to ask, “you want my cock?” but tries, at least, not to sound too hopeful about it.

Louis groans, and then laughs, says, “gonna kill me, Haz,” and, “no, just—more, just a little, please,” so Harry gives him three and keeps at it until he’s screwing down tight and coming, sobbing with it. He makes a noise when Harry pulls his fingers out and pets at him, just gently, because he’s going to be really very sore, and Harry needs to keep his hands occupied so he doesn’t start pulling himself off.

“Good,” Louis mumbles, mouthing at Harry’s jaw, “that was,” and Harry starts to say thank you but it gets caught, somewhere in his throat, when Louis eases his hand down his trunks, pumps him slowly. “Mm. I’ll let you fuck me tomorrow, all right?”

“No, you won’t,” Harry says, but Louis is thumbing at his slit and his grip is firm and everything’s slick, so he doesn’t sound as longsuffering as he wants to. Louis laughs and moves his hand a bit faster, says something that gets lost in the rush of blood at Harry’s ears as he comes. It rides him for what feels like hours, the sort of drawn out, toe-curling orgasm he only has when he’s been waiting on Louis for _actual_ hours, and he melts back into the chair and lets it take him. 

If Harry was going to start composing country songs, it’d be now, when he’s warm and sleepy and sated, with a lapful of Louis. But that doesn’t seem like the sort of thing you divulge in polite company, and it’s easier to smile and nod and let people come to their own conclusions, since they always will anyway.

The dip at the base of Louis’ spine is slick with sweat. He’s going to complain about the heat and tug off his hoodie and head inside soon, but for now Harry thumbs at the spot and looks out at the pool and says, “Truth or dare?”

Louis lifts his head for the sole purpose of raising his eyebrows. When Harry blinks at him meaningfully, he rolls his eyes. “Dare.”

“I dare you,” Harry says, drawing it out until Louis is shifting, impatient and curious despite himself. “I dare you to… pick truth.”

Louis presses his lips together the way he does when he’s pleasantly surprised and trying not to show it. “Sneaky. Fine, all right, truth.”

Harry’s too blissed out to be nervous. “D’you remember when we first played this game? At the X-Factor house. Well, it wasn’t—like, it was a mash-up of spin the bottle and a bunch of other things, but—“

“Yes,” Louis interrupts, “very good, you’ve right sparked my memory.”

“Right,” Harry says, “well, then, you remember someone—I dunno who, one of the girls—and you’d picked truth and they asked you if you had to snog a boy—”

“Any one of the boys in the room,” Louis murmurs, and he reaches out to tap Harry’s lower lip with a finger.

“Yeah,” Harry says, “any one. And you said—“

“Zayn. I remember.” They look at each other for a second and then Louis is laughing, cupping his face with his hands and kissing his nose and temples and cheeks. “Are you honestly—asking—“

Harry makes a show of struggling, but they both know that’s all it is. “Lou- _is_ , get off. I just want to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” Louis says, pulling away with a loud, put-upon sigh that doesn’t at all match the grin on his face. “You caught me. Once upon a time, I, Louis Tomlinson, lied.”

“And therefore cheated,” Harry prompts, and raises his voice to talk over Louis’ sudden protests. “Cheated! You cheater! I’m going to tell Liam, don’t think I won’t.”

“Oh, shove off, you twat,” Louis laughs, “he’ll be fucking insufferable if you do.” 

“He deserves to—mm.” 

“Mm,” Louis agrees, and Harry falls back into kissing him as easy as that, like they’d never stopped. It’s softer now, lazy, and Louis’ skin is over-warm under his hoodie and Harry wants and _wants._ So many things. “Lou. Why did you?”

Their noses knock together when Louis nuzzles into him. “Why d’you think? Didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“Well,” Louis says, “I had no clue how fucking filthy you were then, now did I? How was I to know there was a pervert behind the baby face?” He yelps when Harry pinches him, before pinching him back harder. “But yes, Harry, I loved you best, even then.”

“I knew that,” Harry says, before he can stop himself. “I wanted—“

“Oh,” Louis says, and Harry doesn’t often wish Louis didn’t know him as well as he does. Just sometimes.

So he says, “never mind,” and tries to think of a way to segue back into anything but this, but Louis pulls on his hair and says, “you tit,” and, “shall I shout it from the rooftops, then? D’you want banners? Would you settle for a blimp?” 

“Fuck off,” Harry says, but Louis is still yanking on his hair and biting whatever bits of him he can reach, and looks so theatrically outraged that Harry has to laugh and pull him in, let him lean their foreheads together and sigh, “Harry,” and, “they’ll know, all of them. Someday.”

Someday.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry i dont even know what's wrong with me. NEXT UP, AU!!!!
> 
> i'm on [tumblr!](http://eleadored.tumblr.com/) thanks for reading


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